


Food for Thought

by Futureworldruler



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Before and after Spectre, But only later, Domestic, Eve Moneypenny & Q Friendship, Everyone is snarky, Food, James Bond Has Issues, M/M, Neighbors, Q Has a Cat, Q also has a sister, Spectre canon compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-04
Updated: 2016-06-04
Packaged: 2018-07-12 03:28:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7083307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Futureworldruler/pseuds/Futureworldruler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“All right. I don’t think I can let you do this,” Q said. “C’mon, let’s go.”<br/>“What?” Bond’s eyebrows scrunched together.<br/>“I’m pretty sure those Instant Noodles are at least year old and it’s got more sodium in it than you have time to burn off. M would have my head if I let you put that in your mouth. Or whoever makes sure you’re fit as a whistle.”<br/>“And your solution is…?”<br/>“Well, I have to eat dinner too. I’ll give you the extra.” </p><p>Q and Bond have dinner. It goes downhill from there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Food for Thought

Q figures that he Bond are destined to hate each other. After all, when the first words out of a colleague's mouth are,  
“You must be joking,” it’s pretty obvious the relationship only has one route and it’s not towards a nice, distantly polite workplace association.

When pressed, Q says it’s because Bond never returns his equipment (“One piece, 007. I asked for one piece.”), makes him stay up 72 hours straight cleaning up his messes, and was (and always is) the one to start it in the first place. Usually, the discussion ends there. But for certain individuals, he will surmise that having an older sister means one will never be above using the “they started it method”, especially in childish situations such as this one. And when pressed further (usually when both parties are somewhat sloshed) he will talk about how much more infuriating Bond can be than any other person he works with (Well, Eve, pushes that line somedays even though she is arguably his favorite person at MI6). The needles he presses into Q’s skin make him only itch to take out his own torturing device.  
Eve says that they both should just stop flirting and fuck already because they’re giving everyone else around the office a headache. Statements like this makes Q consider reconfiguring his list of who the most annoying co-worker was. (Unless they were actually...no) (They weren’t flirting) (Were they flirting?)  
Two months later, Bond ran off with Madeleine (Definitely not flirting). So Q drowned out the ache in his chest with Earl Gray and late nights at the office. Burned it out with chats with Eve over mugs of wine and long strings of codes. He made smaller weapons fit into larger ones and tried not to think about why he needed the distraction. It worked pretty well, too. Until Bond decided that right in the middle of a terrorist attack on the great Queen’s country was the perfect time to show up and Q had to deal with it all over again. Except this time it was more of a punch than a low simmer and left him breathless and confused instead of bruised and hollow. Q hated being confused; it rarely happened to him and he liked to keep it that way.

Bond made up some excuse about how things with Madeleine didn’t work out and how recent events made him remember (dry look at Q for this part) how badly his presence at the force was needed to keep England afloat. Q glared at him, determined to take offense, and Bond smirked back, determined to make sure he did.

It was almost normal. Except, sometimes, Bond’s entire body tightened like he was waiting for a blow. Sometimes, Q caught him looking like a little kid lost in some big city without his parents in sight. But Q didn’t know what to say now, so he didn’t. And he didn’t know what to do now, (with all these punches and blows, his chest was probably going to break in half) so he ignored it.

But then Q was leaving work and he had to stop by the Tech break room to pick up his Scrabble mug and there was Bond, waiting guiltily for the water to boil for his instant noodles. They stared at each other like deers caught in mirroring headlights.  
“Bond?” Q gaped.  
“Q,” the agent nodded, trying to look dignified as he leaned against the cracked, plastic counter.  
“What are you doing?”  
“Ah, um.” For the first time since Q had known him, Bond looked embarrassed. Not because he had blown up the American Embassy in China, or had demolished not one but five 6 million pound cars, but because James Bond, often seen in a nice Italian tux, fine scotch in hand and a beautiful woman on his arm, (Because yes, he did believe that his life was a spy movie) had been caught eating something that’s main ingredient was hot water. “Taking a break from writing case reports,” he tried.  
“Are you eating Cup O’ Noodles?” Q asked, still in shock.  
“I found it in the pantry,” Bond answered defensively.  
“So you’re stealing from us?” Q arched an eyebrow.  
“I don’t think you lot will miss it. You all seem to live solely off of tea, biscuits, and my daring adventures,” Bond said. Q glared at him.  
“Oh yes, this seems like quite the escapade. Try not to burn yourself.”  
“I always do,” Bond quipped back. Q, having a basic grasp on the rules of social interaction, figured this was the part where he left, but for some reason, his feet remained where they were. It just seemed wrong to let someone who had spent their entire life helping protect the British Government (Well, for the most part. Sometimes it seemed Bond was trying to do the complete opposite) eat instant noodles alone in this sad office building. He sighed.  
“All right. I don’t think I can let you do this,” Q said. “C’mon, let’s go.”  
“What?” Bond’s eyebrows scrunched together.  
“I’m pretty sure that's at least year old and it’s got more sodium in it than you have time to burn off. M would have my head if I let you put that in your mouth. Or whoever makes sure you’re fit as a whistle.”  
“And your solution is…?”  
“Well, I have to eat dinner too. I’ll give you the extra.”  
“How considerate,” Bond said dryly, but he stood up from his perch and walked out with him anyway.

Q would’ve taken the tube, as he usually did, but he didn’t think Bond rode public transportation unless he was stalking someone (or the fine wines inside of it). So as they stepped onto the streets, he hailed a cab, motioning for Bond to get in when one pulled over. They didn’t speak on the ride there, not after Q told the cabbie the address. Frankly, Q felt too tired to say anything, too worn out from the day's (and days and days) events to do more than let his head fall back on the headrest and close his eyes. Bond seemed content to stare out the window, probably memorizing the route there. Maybe it was a stupid idea to let him know where Q lived, but at this point his brain couldn’t think past food and blankets and a nice cup of tea.

“You can stop here,” Q told the cab driver when they had arrived. After paying him, Q heaved himself out along with Bond, who was staring up at the houses with interest. “C’mon, Bond,” Q called to him, walking up the steps to his home. The street was comprised of townhouses all squished together in a mess of brick and windows and narrow doors. His own was a navy blue and the sight of it could bring him to his knees out of sheer joy that he would see something besides the haggard faces of his employees and the emotionally broken expressions of the agents soon. Bond followed him up the steep steps as Q tried to unlock his door before it suddenly opened for him all on its own. A head popped into view.  
“Oh, hello there Quintin!” Ms Hatters smiled bright, pulling him in for a hug. She had a thing about hugging people. Q didn’t understand it, but he always let it happen anyway. Ms Hatters was a great hugger and she always smelled nice, like sweet perfume and chamomile tea. Q wondered if it was a rule that all old women had to smell good.  
“Hello, Ms Hatters,” Q said to her shoulder. “You going out for the night?”  
“Oh, yes dear. The dog needs a walk and I thought I’d visit my Margie down at the bakery. Would you like me to bring you back a couple of muffins for tomorrow’s breakfast?”  
“That would be lovely, thank you,” Q said warmly, letting her go.  
“And who’s this gentleman, here?” Ms Hatters asked, noticing Bond. He smiled and offered his hand.  
“Bond. James, Bond,” he purred, like he always does. “I work with Quintin here.” He shot Q an amused look. Q rolled his eyes as Ms. Hatters swooned a little. That made him roll his eyes harder (Only at Bond, though. If he ever showed scorn towards Ms Hatters she’d probably box him in the ear).  
“Bond, this is Ms Hatters, my neighbor,” Q introduced her.  
“Pleasure,” she smiled slyly. “Well, I best be off, boys. Lovely to meet you, Mr Bond.”  
“Please, just James,” he responded and Q thought he saw Ms Hatters blush.  
“Goodbye Ms Hatters,” Q called, waiting until she was out of hearing distance before hitting Bond. “Don’t seduce my neighbor,” he ordered.  
“Ow,” Bond said tonelessly.  
“I mean it. She’s a nice lady.”  
“Okay.”  
“She could probably take down the whole of London with a few stern words, then set it proper with a couple of lemondrops and good cup of chamomile tea,” Q continued absentmindedly as he finally opened the door and stepped into the stairwell. “And she takes care of my cats when I’m not home.”  
“Okay.” Now it sounded like Bond was laughing. More incredulously than meanly but Q still turned around and hit him again.  
“Shut up,” Q told him, starting up the stairs. “I’m feeding you, you know.”  
“Is that why we’re here?” Bond asked.  
“Why else would we be?”  
“Pitstop.” Q could hear the shrug.  
“You think I can pay for dinner after taking a cab home?” Q said. Bond laughed again.  
“I figured they paid you enough.”  
“Not nearly,” Q grumbled.  
“Well, enough to get a flat in London.”  
“How am I supposed to go out for food when I have a flat in London?”  
“And the cats to take care of.”  
“Exactly.”

They stood in front of Q’s door at the top of the stairs as he wrestled with the lock. When he finally got it, he walked inside, breathing out a sigh and Bond followed, gazing around curiously. It wasn’t much; a kitchen sat in a corner with a wooden table right in front of it, one comfy couch and a couple of chairs further into the room. The whole place was covered with knick knacks Katherine, the older sister, had given him and various tech he was working on. Off to the side, there was a hallway leading to his bedroom and bathroom. As always, Tesla came trotting out soon enough, meowing wildly.  
“Yes, yes,” Q waved a hand at him, setting down his bag and walking towards the kitchen.  
“Hello kitty,” Bond said. Tesla meowed at him. “He’s a talker.”  
“Especially at 3 in the morning,” Q peered into his refrigerator.  
“Lovely,” Bond walked further into the room. “Do you have more than one?”  
“I do. Nikola is probably hiding in my bed. She doesn’t like...anything actually.”  
“Nikola Tesla,” Q could hear his smirk. “Clever.” Q hummed his thanks before asking,  
“How does stir fry sound?”  
“Perfect.”

And it was. Well, nearly. Bon protested profusely that he had to help cut the vegetables (“I’m a government agent who has extensive knowledge on how to kill a man with any tool you can find in a hotel room.”  
“Then you shouldn’t have any trouble with the knife. Keep chopping, 007.”) Then, Nikola attacked Bond’s hand when he tried to pet her and Q barely burnt the stir fry laughing. And Bond, as one would expect, was disgusted with his hard alcohol choices. But it was strangely comfortable. Domestic. Q cooking and Bond making fun of the liquor he kept and his demonic cats. For all the words that seemed to go unspoken at work, they had plenty to say outside the office. Being confined in a cramped area (and a couple of glasses of wine, no matter how “disgusting” they were) made words flow and movements languid. Q barely noticed it was midnight until he looked up while laughing and caught the time on the clock hanging on the wall (the one that had “Everything is harder in the dark” transcribed along the edge instead of numbers) (Katherine, evil sister she was, had bought it for him. When he got it in the mail he could hear her laughing all the way from America).  
“Oh shit,” he breathed. “It’s late.”  
“How late?” Bond looked at his watch. “Ah. Well. Best be going, then.”  
“You’ll get home alright?” Q asked. Bond looked at him.  
“00 Agent,” he said. Q laughed.  
“Right. Well, thanks for...coming over.”  
“My pleasure. Buy better liquor next time.” Bond stood up. Next time? “See you at work, Quintin.”  
“That’s not my name,” Q rolled his eyes. Bond just gave him a smile that was in no way reassuring and left.

Q actually did end up buying a different brand of scotch which was good because Bond ended up coming over three days after their first “dinner”. He didn’t even give Q a warning; one night someone knocked on his door and Bond was on the other side of it, smirking and lifting up a plate full of cookies (give the man an inch…).  
“Ms. Hatters gives her love,” he said wryly. Q rolled his eyes and set another place on the table. And another and another and another until eventually he gave up any pretense of pretending he wasn’t expecting Bond to come over and just started to cook two portions. Sometimes (most of the time) Q couldn’t get away from work and so they sat companionably in Q’s office, munching on takeout. Sometimes (a lot of the time) Bond was away on a mission and so Q would work until the sun came up behind him, not wanting to go home to his empty apartment to eat by himself. He would call Kathy and chat with her as she got ready for her own day, or go down to Ms. Hatters and drink chamomile tea as she told him about her daughter Margie or her younger days. Sometimes she would refer to Bond as “your young man” and Q would sputter and go red in the face.  
“He’s not mine, Ms. Hatters,” he would say. “We’re hardly friends.” (Well, maybe. Maybe friends. At what point did one know?)  
“Pish posh. You don’t have to pretend in front of me, I’m completely for the...oh what do you call it. The gay rights movement. Margie’s one of them bisexuals, I think, and her friend’s trans. I met him yesterday in fact; very nice lad.” she’d smile. “More tea, dear?”  
It wasn’t only Ms. Hatters who was getting the wrong idea. M asked him if he’d filed a conflict relations report on their relationship yet. Eve wouldn’t stop teasing (“The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach!”), and God save Q from the looks exchanged around the office whenever Bond stepped into his room. Probably because that infernal man wouldn’t stop calling him Quintin, which not only furthered the belief they were in a relationship but was also catching around the workplace. And it wasn’t even his real name.

If Q thought about it too long, the edges tinged with strange. If he thought about it too long, the ache started in his chest and spread throughout his body like a virus. So Q didn’t think about it (he was good at that. Ignore till it’s a bore).  
But sometimes, it seemed impossible.

 

Like when Q was so tired it seemed like real life was a dream. Bond had taken one look at him, and made him take a nap on the couch. When Q had woken up, Bond had made lasagna (Well, made is debatable. Q still isn’t convinced he didn’t run down to the store and pick some up) with garlic bread and they ate together while watching Mr. Robot because Q thought it was hilarious.

Like when Q came home after watching Lily, one of the youngest agents they had, get shot twenty two times in the chest. Bond had somehow known that Q was pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezed shut, when he said yes, he would be home tonight and had showed up later that night with Chinese takeout, somehow already knowing it was something Q only ate when he needed a pick-me-up. As a thank you, Q told him, through a mouth full of pad thai,  
“If you die, I’ll kill you.” And Bond had just laughed lowly and said,  
“Usually, I’d say that’s impossible, but knowing you, I have no doubt you’ll find a way.”

Like when a piece of tech (might have) (maybe) exploded (a little) when Q was working on it and he had to spend three days in the hospital. Bond was on a mission at the time (Thank God) so Q didn’t see him until after he was discharged. Unfortunately, when they did see each other again, Q was knee deep in a quicksand conversation with Katherine. Q waved hello as Katherine went on and on in his ear about how he needed to take better care of himself.  
“Katherine, I have to go,” he was able to finally say. “Someone’s here to speak to me.”  
“Who?” Katherine demanded. “If it’s anyone less than Eve then you can tell them to fuck off, because I’m not done with you, you tosser.” Q knew Bond could hear every word she was saying because he laughed quietly.  
“It’s an agent,” Q rolled his eyes, knowing she could tell.  
“Is it that Bond fellow? Let me speak to him.” Because you do as Katherine tells you to, Q gave the phone to Bond, who took it with a quizzical expression.  
“Hello?” he said.  
“Make sure my brother doesn’t do anything stupid,” Q heard her say. “I know what you’re doing with him and if I hear any mention of him exploding, being poisoned, or cut up again, I’ll have both your heads.” Then she hung up. Bond looked a little shocked when he handed the phone back to Q.  
“That was your sister?” he asked.  
“Older by four years,” Q nodded. Bond snorted.  
“That must have been an interesting childhood.”  
“Oh, you have no idea.”

Like when the night trickled and the bottle was empty and Bond opened like an evening primrose blooming in the moonlight. He talked about Vesper, how he had trusted her and she had destroyed him from the inside. He talked about Madeleine, how she had given him a way out, but he still didn’t know if he wanted it. He talked about the job, the thrills, the heartbreaking devastations. How he wanted to leave, but he didn’t know anything else. And Q realized that he really didn’t need to say anything. He just had to listen, pour more wine and, when Bond’s voice faltered in and out, offer his hand to grasp against the storm.

But the next day still held no answers to the muffled questions inside his head.

All he knew was his heart seemed too big for his chest (two sizes too big) when the folder in his brain labeled “Facts about Bond” grew more stuffed with each week. (Bond liked spicy curry, vanilla milkshakes, and cute cat videos) (Bond liked jazz music, fine wine, and early mornings runs) (Bond liked explosions, nice suits, and _women_ )

And his head hurt too little when Eve rolled her eyes and told him to just have sex with him already, the third date had already passed long ago.

And his body ached with all of the bruises he got from the thoughts grappling inside his brain. So he used his powers of ignorance and shoved them into the back of his mind, hoping if he kept them in the dark for long enough they would turn into dust and blow away.

Which might have happened. If he hadn’t forgotten to calculate the fact that sometimes (one time) Bond came in through his door with none of the pesto he promised but instead all these words about how they’ve practically been dating for a few months already so did he mind if they did the fun stuff that usually came along with it? And sometimes (all of the time) Q pushes Bond against the refrigerator and kisses him like he hates him, like he loves him. Like he can taste the love that lingers in his mouth after a meal.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
